After wearing glasses for a while, you stop noticing them on your nose because the brain filters out the information as irrelevant. Life, after all, is tiring and demands maximum energy efficiency, which is why we tend to avoid questioning established behaviors and beliefs—often to the point that we don’t even realize they’re there. This applies not only to glasses but also to copyright. Copyright, though relatively recent and constantly evolving, is a set of rules that are often taken for granted.

Let’s take a brief look at its history. The concept of authorship dates back centuries, with Martial already complaining about those who imitated his verses. However, the most well-known anecdote involves Giordano Bruno, who was caught plagiarizing, nearly word for word, from Marsilio Ficino during his lectures at Oxford. Back then, there was no legal consequence for plagiarism—the worst punishment was shame. Bruno, for instance, was expelled from Oxford for his actions. As political and technological changes took place, largely driven by the invention of the printing press, these rights began to be more clearly defined. By late fifteenth century, the first forms of protection for publishers and printers had appeared in Venice. However, modern copyright as we know it didn’t take shape until England’s Statute of Anne in 1710, followed by revolutionary France.

This particular moment is worth examining further. To wrest intellectual rights from the control of the defunct monarchy, ownership of intellectual works was transferred to their creators. Enlightenment philosopher Denis Diderot championed this idea, though it was partially opposed by another intellectual, Condorcet. In his Fragments on the Freedom of the Press (1776), Condorcet argued that a work, as a vehicle for ideas, shouldn’t be considered private property. He believed that the law should allow multiple people to use the same ideas simultaneously, as they are the product of collective processes. This might be one of the earliest arguments pointing toward the concept of the “public domain,” though ultimately, Diderot’s views won out. On January 13, 1791, the Le Chapelier Law granted authors five years of posthumous rights, which was later extended to ten years by the Lakanal Law in 1793. Over the centuries, this time limit has been repeatedly lengthened, partly to protect the interests of powerful rights holders like Disney. In 1998, just as one of Mickey Mouse’s works was about to enter the public domain, Disney managed to extend posthumous rights to 70 years, in what was humorously dubbed the “Mickey Mouse Protection Act.”

Additionally, the concept of trademarks emerged—another intricate domain of law, with no time limits on renewal. Over the years, many studies have questioned the value of current copyright laws, both in terms of fairness and effectiveness, but I won’t delve into the complexities of this contentious issue here. In summary, many critics argue that current copyright laws stifle creativity and innovation, fail to fairly compensate authors while benefiting large corporations, limit access to cultural works, overlook the collaborative and collective nature of cultural production, are ill-suited to the digital age, restrict research, and hinder social progress. I largely agree with these critiques, though they have been met with counter-arguments. However, my interest lies not in the copyright debate itself but in the impact that this evolving philosophical and legal concept has had on art and artists.

As mentioned earlier, plagiarism has a long history. In the case of writing—a notational system where the reference (the meaning of the words) may be ambiguous, but the formulation of the text (the arrangement of letters) is not—it’s relatively easy to spot when and how much of a work has been copied. Music, although more complex, is still verifiable, as it too relies on a notational system, albeit with the added element of performance. Girolamo De Simone provides a fascinating account, showing that plagiarism has been a common practice in music since ancient times. For example, “the great Mozart, loved by the gods and, in films, envied by Salieri for his genius, delighted in borrowing themes from other composers. The Overture of The Magic Flute contains themes from Cimarosa and Clementi, the latter considered the ‘father of piano music.’ As Luciano Chailly reminds us, ‘Mozart faced numerous accusations of plagiarism for borrowing from Gluck, Haydn, Paisiello, J. Christian Bach, Sarti, and others.'” I’m no music expert, but I recall my father, an avid music lover with near-perfect pitch, could instantly recognize who borrowed from whom, and in what way. There were many cases like this, often involving famous masters.

This brings us to the issue of plagiarism, a problem that is formally unsolvable: when are we dealing with plagiarism, and when is it legitimate inspiration? Or, in legal terms, when is a work sufficiently transformative? The case of visual art, which, unlike music and writing, rarely relies on a notational system, might be an intriguing lens through which to explore this distinction.

In visual art, as in music, accusations of plagiarism have a long history, but we won’t trace it here. Just flipping the pages of an art history book reveals countless examples of plagiarism—or inspiration—that have influenced and continue to shape art. Under a strict lens, one could argue that every art-historical “-ism” is a form of plagiarism, considering the shared traits of movements like Baroque, Neoclassicism, Impressionism, Expressionism, Cubism, Surrealism, Pop Art, and so on. Most of these movements are labeled as -isms precisely because their works share identifiable characteristics. The challenge is determining when something crosses the line into plagiarism and when it remains inspiration, and tackling this challenge is even more difficult due to the fact that the criteria for judgment are far from objective—they shift according to cultural, historical, and geographical sensibilities. Giovanni Carlo Ballola once wrote, “If Mozart had lived today, he would have spent much of his life in court for plagiarism.” Yet, today, we can’t imagine being without his works.

Numerous legal disputes have arisen in the art world. Jeff Koons has faced—and lost—several plagiarism cases. Isgrò won a case against the Rolling Stones. Shepard Fairey was sued by the Associated Press. Damien Hirst has been accused of plagiarism on numerous occasions and has provocatively admitted that all of his works are copied, though he often can’t remember from whom. Even abstract art is not immune to plagiarism claims, as demonstrated when Emilio Vedova won a lawsuit against Pierluigi De Lutti—and, indeed, the similarities between their paintings are striking. However, I wouldn’t say the same about the photo of Obama and Fairey’s work. In the Vedova-De Lutti case, Vedova’s fame far exceeded that of De Lutti, but consider the case of Mimmo Rotella, who, years after the French artist Jacques Villeglé, adopted the décollage technique to create very similar paintings. Yet, Rotella was never sued, and his works became far more valuable.

I’m not a lawyer, but to be honest, it bothers me is when a wealthier individual demands money from someone poorer for violating intellectual property, as I see no collective benefit in that. Of course, the law applies to everyone, but I can’t help but wince at the greed driving some lawsuits. We also know that laws change, just as the sensibilities and power structures they reflect evolve. Roberto Caso, a professor of private law, writes in some insightful slides on plagiarism that “the judgment must be based on a comprehensive and synthetic assessment, not an analytical one, focusing on a comparative evaluation of the essential elements of the works being compared—meaning that the overall effect or unified impression must be considered.” Paraphrasing this in my own imperfect terms, it seems to imply that there’s no fixed rule, and each case must be judged individually based on shared criteria. But how common are these criteria, really?

This is where our own sensibilities come into play—ours as well as those of artists—and how they’ve changed over time. A striking example is Andy Warhol’s Brillo Box. The design for the Brillo box that Warhol appropriated was originally created in 1961 by abstract expressionist painter James Harvey (1929–1965), who also worked as a commercial graphic designer. During a lecture with a group of American students, before revealing James Harvey’s reaction to the Brillo Box, I asked them how they would have reacted in his shoes. I ask my readers the same, if they don’t already know the story. Every single one of the students (and I emphasize, every one) said they would have sued Andy Warhol. According to philosopher and art critic Arthur Danto, Harvey was present at the opening of Warhol’s Brillo Box exhibition at the Stable Gallery. “Harvey was stunned… He realized that he had designed boxes now being sold for hundreds of dollars at the gallery, while his own boxes were worth nothing. But Harvey certainly didn’t view his boxes as works of art,” Danto writes. New York art dealer Joan Washburn, who had already organized two exhibitions of Harvey’s work at the Graham Gallery, attended the opening with the artist. “He was overwhelmed,” recalls Washburn. When asked if Harvey was angry, she replied: “No. He found it amusing. Everyone at the Stable Gallery that night had a good time.”

I side with James Harvey, and even if one attributes his reaction to a mere matter of temperament, it’s undeniable that much of the great art of the 20th century would be at risk of lawsuits today, if not considered outright illegal. Thankfully, art galleries remain quite free zones, as long as the works are unique pieces sold as art. However, we are no longer in the early 20th century, and artists today largely earn their living in other domains—many of which are increasingly constrained by more restrictive laws. Even the mindset of artists has shifted, often reflecting the individualism prevalent in Western society at the expense of the collective spirit that remains essential to any creative endeavor. It may sound paradoxical, but artists tend to be possessive and conservative creatures.

Looking at the intersection of style and copyright, the case of musician Robin Thicke is particularly illustrative. Thicke was found guilty of plagiarism and ordered to pay over seven million dollars for Blurred Lines, a 2013 hit that Marvin Gaye’s family claimed was too similar to his 1977 song Got to Give It Up. What’s striking about this case is that, while copyright law protects the sequence of notes, and the sequences in the two songs differ, Thicke still lost due to the stylistic similarities between the tracks. Let’s set the legal technicalities aside for a moment and simply listen to the two songs. Depending on one’s sensitivity, they may seem either too similar or sufficiently distinct, but there’s no objective measure to decide this. Personally, I find the two songs different enough, and I also find it absurd that the lawsuit was brought by Gaye’s heirs rather than the artist himself, as they didn’t create anything but merely inherited rights. More importantly, I agree with Tim Wu, who commented on the case by saying: “Consider the sheer number of creators who would be affected if such rulings were levied more widely. Everyone knows that the Rolling Stones borrowed their style from Chuck Berry and other rhythm-and-blues artists. Rush’s first album sounds a lot like Led Zeppelin—who copied Robert Johnson, among others. Nor is this true only in musical composition. Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso borrowed ideas from Paul Cézanne to develop Cubism, for instance, a style that was, in turn, copied by numerous others. There are hundreds of other examples. To suggest that this verdict will encourage better songwriting is to misunderstand the history of the arts. The freedom of artists and other creators to borrow from each other is connected with the principle that ideas cannot be copyrighted, a notion that is essential to free speech and artistic expression.”

For decades there have been political and economic critiques of how copyright is managed. Critics argue that artists gain nothing from restricting access to their work and that only established creators and large corporations benefit. Despite this, copyright laws have become increasingly restrictive and are likely to become even more so in the future. Recently, for example, there’s been heated debate over whether it’s legal to use copyrighted material to train machine learning systems, both open-source and proprietary. In Europe, votes have already been cast requiring companies to disclose the datasets they use. While transparency is generally welcome (even though enforcing it may prove difficult, since datasets are not embedded within the software itself), many fear this will lead to a ban on training AI models with non-proprietary data. If this trend continues and becomes global, the future of artificial intelligence may end up controlled by Big Tech monopolies, which can afford or already own vast amounts of data, as suggested by the AI projects from companies like Adobe and Shutterstock. Various partnerships, such as Open AI with many publishers worldwide, seem to confirm this. A better proposal would be to exempt open-source datasets from any copyright restrictions, allowing for the broader development of publicly accessible AI. This approach would not only encourage the spread of AI technologies for public use but also foster the practice of sharing tools and resources, driving greater innovation and collaboration in the field. By removing legal barriers around open-source data, we could create a more inclusive and equitable AI ecosystem that benefits society as a whole.

Another notable example is the recent legal victory of Florence’s Galleria dell’Accademia against a publisher that used an image of Michelangelo’s David without paying a fee. A public asset, free of copyright for centuries, is now effectively no longer common property. The news has been met with both criticism and praise, including from the Minister of Culture, but in my view, this is a sign of how distorted our understanding of public goods has become. Why shouldn’t I be able to profit from using a work that has been part of humanity’s heritage for over 500 years? Should we start paying royalties to the heirs or self-appointed guardians of every invention, work, or technology we use—starting with the wheel? Sadly, this suggests that we have lost our sense of the “heritage of humanity,” a shared treasure that transcends nations and uses, and over which no individual, company, or country can claim ownership.

When it comes to copyright, it’s clear that the driving force behind these regulations is more economic than philosophical. Like Kirby Ferguson, I believe that art is always a remix, a collective process. If Picasso had been born 500 years earlier, he might still have been a painter, but certainly not the one we know today—because he wouldn’t have had access to the artistic and technological innovations of the centuries that followed. Picasso owes no credit to past discoveries, nor can he claim credit for many contemporary ones that shaped his work. Strip Guernica of everything that cannot be attributed solely to Picasso’s genius—remove the materials and techniques invented by others, the language through which they were taught, the artworks that influenced its creation, the people and things that sparked its ideas, the cultural context built by others, the war itself—and very little of the painting would remain. It’s worth recalling Condorcet here, who, despite the limitations of his era, made remarkably forward-thinking observations. He noted the inherent uncertainty in determining the point at which something should be considered a product of single human intellectual effort. Furthermore, he argued that genius is not a gift reserved for a select few but rather a faculty unequally distributed among all. Perhaps it’s time we realize that the lenses we’ve been wearing without noticing have grown so dark that they now obscure a simple truth: no act of creativity is born in isolation; every innovation is, at its core, a collective effort.